YOU EXHIBITIONIST

Vylité konvice, přejetá auta, chomáče zaprášených časů

kolik miliard vlasů
roste na holých hlavách lidí téhle planety
kolik světelných let vzdálené světy podobají se našemu
tři flakóny parfému hozené do vesmíru
přípitek na to že neznáme správnou míru

kolik kapek krve projde po koberci
bez povšimnutí?

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If there ever is a moment in your life when you have nothing better to do than lie down on the floor reading novels and let the music play all day and all night long, when there is a coffee machine in the kitchen and when you needn't care about anything at all, when there actually is nothing better to do and when the only interesting person within the reach is yourself, enjoy it.

The best thing about that is that it won't last long anyway.

I haven't been reading a novel for such a long time. At some point, I guess I've read too many which made all the magic go away. I felt like I need to read all of them, all the novels in the world. I still feel like this about the books of knowledge, books on philosophy, arts, history, religions, psychology, famous people, the streets of Berlin, the chemical ingredients of oil paints, and possibly some other topics I'm not even interested in yet. These are the books one needs. But novels are the books one wants. Novels are like lovers, only one at time. The right one for the right moment, knowing one would have to let them go after that right moment is over and sooner or later pick up another one, for that another moment.

Look at these my ruby red ruby lips / for we make a little history, baby
every time we come around.